The Odds
by She Walks With Grace
Summary: To me, it all felt like too much coincidence. Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. Sentenced to death. To be made fish in a barrell, thrown into the ring with lions, what little dignity we could hope to have in death turned into public entertainment.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Dawn is just arriving when I wake up that morning, the sky cloudless, pale pink in the first rays from the sun. We're opening up shop early, as we have to close just past noon for the Reaping, and downstairs I can already hear the sound of fires being stoked, my mother instructing Aedan to fetch something for her. I dress quickly and go down into the shop, trying to quell the uneasy feeling in my stomach that I grows inside me in the run up to this day each year. The worry is pointless, really. My family are hardly well off, but we do not rely of tesserae to live. As far as these things go, the odds are as in my favour as they will ever be. Aedan, being nineteen, is exempt from the Reaping, which takes a little of the weight off my chest, but Feb, like myself, is in the running for tribute, although he's finally reached his last year.

It's not just myself I'm worried for, in all honesty, it's those who rely on their tesserae to live, and by the time they reach my age or older have their names in maybe over fifteen times. District Twelve has the largest percentage of people applying for tesserae in all of the districts, I'm told. It's understandable. We are the forgotten district, growing dusty in a forgotten corner of the Capitol's mind, left at the wayside to rot. And rot we do.

My father, jovial as always, does a good job at keeping the dark clouds from hovering over us as we go about our duty, serving those well off enough to be able to buy from us, and it's this I'm thankful for. My mother acts as though today is no different from any other, but there's an added sharpness to her attitude today which lets on that she's more worried than she'd like us to know. She's not one to wear her feelings on her sleeve, but she worries like any mother.

There's a knock on the back door at about seven, and my father goes to answer it. I listen as he talks quietly to the visitor. I recognise the voice. Gale Hawthorn, an older boy from my school. He's alone. After a couple of minutes, he thanks my father and leaves.

"Who was that?" my mother inquires once the door is shut once more.

"Eldest Hawthorne kid," Father answers her, holding up a squirrel by the tail, a perfect puncture mark straight through the eye that I can see from where I'm standing. "I gave him a loaf in return for this."

My mother tuts disapprovingly, the way she always does when Father makes overly generous trades, but says nothing. We've heard the number of times Gale has his name in for the Reaping this year, and this trade feels like our family's way of showing that even if the odds aren't in his favour, we are. And that's the best we can do.

My mother gives me a long look when I come back downstairs, after the work surfaces have been cleared and the sign on the front door says _closed_. I force a warm smile to my lips, and she says nothing. When Feb joins us, she chastises us about being late, though the square is right outside our door.

* * *

People have already begun to gather, ordered into two halves, boys and girls, and then divided by age. I join a few of my school friends, and we all smile weakly at each other, fidgeting. Hands drum against legs, feet tap, no one speaks. The sight of Effie Trinket catches my eye. It would be difficult for her not to. She's District 12's escort from the Capitol, in charge of selecting and caring for the tributes before they're sent to their almost inevitable dooms. Her hair's pink this year, her suit a vibrant green, contrasting horrifyingly with the washed out blues, faded browns and the coal dust of District 12.

The clock strikes two and my gut clenches, hands balled into fists at my side. I try to keep my expression neutral, but I'm certain I'm grimacing.

Mayor Undersee's familiar face appears, stepping towards the microphone, looking morose. He speaks of the time of our ancestors, in North America. He speaks of the beginnings of Panem, the Dark Days and the New Dawn brought by the Treaty of Treason. He speaks of the Hunger Games. The rules are simple, and known to ever child old enough to talk. A boy and a girl from each district, between the ages of twelve and eighteen, to participate in a fight to the death in an enormous arena with the tributes from the other districts. Only one child comes out. This is the punishment for our wrongdoings. This is our penance for disputing the Capitol.

I'm pulled back to reality as Undersee says in a low voice, "It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks."

It is then traditional in the Reaping ceremony to read the list of the District's own victors. The Hunger Games have been an annual event for seventy-four years, and in all that time we have won just twice. Our first victor was many years ago, and is deceased now, leaving us with Haymitch Abernathy, winner of the second Quarter Quell, the 50th Hunger Games. He's been absent until this moment, but chooses to stagger drunkenly onto the stage as his name is spoken. This kind of entrance is by no means unusual for him. After so many years, we have taken it into our stride.

Effie totters forwards, her bright smile adding to just how much of an outsider she is here. The crowd looks back at her, sullen.

"Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be _ever_ in you favour," she intones. I notice more than one mouth mockingly repeat the sentiment, satirical smiles plastered onto their faces. With a pronouncement of "Ladies first!" she trots over to the large glass bowl on her left, filled with hundreds of slips of paper, each carefully inscribed with someone's name. Her skims over the top layer of names briefly, and I take a moment to wonder at the wildly impractical adornments on her nails, before she plunges them right into the centre of the bowl, catching a name from somewhere near the bottom and drawing it out. There's a heavy pause as she opens the slip, glances at it for a moment and then says in a cheerful tone, "Primrose Everdeen!"

I am frozen. Ice creeps along my fingers, up my arms, and my jaw drops a little. The young girl, her fair hair in two plaits over her shoulders, the back of shirt untucked, steps forward, stunned, her blue eyes wide and afraid. She walks towards the platform, seeming as though an invisible force was nudging her forwards. _No, _I think. Because somehow I know what's going to happen right before it does.

"Prim!" The strangled cry comes from the section of teenagers opposite mine, the girls from my school year. "Prim!" There's scuffling as the girl pushes her way out from between her class mates, pushes her sister behind her. "I volunteer!" she screams at Effie Trinket, her voice cracking, eyes wild, "I volunteer as tribute!"

A dead weight settles in my stomach, another one on top of my chest as I look at the girl who's stepped forwards, offering her self up to death. A strand of her black hair has fallen from her braids, and clings to the edge of her mouth, and her chest heaves with wild panic. I hear Effie chirping brightly about protocol, and the Mayor interrupting her, but I feel as though I'm underwater. _No._

The younger girl's scream cause me to surface. She clings to her sister. "No, Katniss! No, you can't go!" I try to swallow past the lump forming in my throat, my nails digging deep into my palms.

"Prim, let go." Katniss hissing, pain briefly showing behind her eyes that she quickly shuts off. "Let go!"

And then Gale's there, scooping Prim up and muttering something to Katniss. He carries the struggling girl away. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest as the dark haired girl makes her way up the steps to the platform that I hope those around me can't hear it. My eyes are fixed on her, willing myself to wake up again with pink light in my room, ready to start Reaping day, baking for a few hours before a girl I've never met is chosen as tribute, a girl I don't-

Effie is chatting away, saying some rubbish about Katniss not wanting Prim to take the glory of being in the Games. No one says anything, and when she asks for a round of applause for District 12's newest tribute, no one does as they're instructed. Around me, everyone is still, everyone is silent, and no one applauds. Slowly, people begin to lift their first three fingers to their lips, pressing them to them before lifting them to the girl before us, the girl who stands with her back straight and eyes forward as she awaits her fate. It is our gesture of our district, reserved as a farewell of love and admiration. The spell of our unity is broken as Haymitch throws an arm around Katniss slurring his approval of this particular tribute. She has spunk, he says. He points at a camera set up before the front of the stage. "More than you!" he shouts. This address seems to be directed at the Capitol. He must be incredibly drunk. Just as he looks as if he's about to continue, he stumbles, and keels over the edge of the stage, landing, unconscious, at the bottom. I glance at Katniss, just as she seems to let out a small sob, perhaps grasping the moment that the cameras weren't focussed on her. I admire her courage. I've always admired her courage. As Haymitch is discretely removed, I'm reminded that all is not over yet. Effie moved over to the second glass bowl.

"It's time to chose our boy tribute!" She doesn't hesitate this time, she simply grabs the first slip her hand touches, pulls it out swiftly and reads "Peeta Mellark!"

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading! If you want to know how each chapter is coming along or you have any questions, just head over to my Tumblr (theaquatruck(.)tumblr(.).com) and I'll be happy to talk to you._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

I feel like I've been hit in the gut. All the wind leaves me and I gasp for air, disbelief flooding me. I glance at my peers, praying I'd misheard, but their morose, pitiful expressions only confirm that my name in an affected, Capitol accent really had just been spoken. As I began to take my first step forward, I curse fate, destiny, God, the stars, everything that the people in times before Panem are said to have worship, believed control the path of their lives. To me, it all feels like too much coincidence. Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark_. _Sentenced to death. To be made fish in a barrel, thrown into the ring with lions, what little dignity we could hope to have in death turned into public entertainment. I wonder where Feb is. I don't expect him to volunteer. This is my road to walk, however short it may now end up being. My eyes meet Katniss' for a moment, and I see recognition in them. The victory is small in the present situation.

I reach the platform and the mayor reads the Treaty of Treason in a melancholy voice. I try to avoid the stricken gazes on my family members, gathered around the edge of the square. I will face them soon enough, though not for long enough. I focus on the drone of Undersee's voice, holding back tears which later will be inevitable. When at last he finishes, he gestures for Katniss and I to shake hands. I meet her eyes and give her hand a gentle squeeze of reassurance, though whether it's for her benefit or mine I'm not entirely certain.

After Panem's anthem plays, we are escorted into the Justice Building and given our final hour with our families. I glance over the faces of my parents and siblings as they enter the room. My father's eyes are rimmed with red. Feb won't meet my gaze. Aeden is trying to look stoic, attempting a smile when he looks at me. My mother's lips are pursed, but her eyes dry. We sit in silence, no one knowing what to say. I don't blame them. The chances of this happening were minimal. We were nervous, sure, but I don't believe for a minute that anyone truly expected this. We never planned in advance what we would do if the worst came to worst.

Eventually, my mother speaks. "Maybe District 12 will have a victor this year."

At first I think she's trying to raise my spirits, reassure me, however useless the act might be, but then she continues, "She's a fighter, that one."

Feb looks shocked and Aeden growls angrily, turning and striding to other side of the room. The burning expression on his father's face reminds me that my mother wasn't his first choice. I wonder if it's this that made her like this, bitter, resentful, or if she always was. The thoughts distract me from her words. We remain in silence until our hour is almost up, but when the last hugs have been shared, a curt nod directed towards my mother, and the heavy door shuts behind them, leaving me alone, I break down, reality dawning on me. I'm sixteen—sixteen years old—and I can count the weeks I have left to live on one hand.

* * *

Katniss scrutinises my face as we pull up to the train station. I try to ignore her as she examines the obvious teartracks, my red eyes. Trying to rid myself of them will just show her I've noticed her looking. I keep looking forward, denying the further tears that threaten to spill over.

The train is magnificent. Sleek, silver, perfectly silent as it speeds through the hills and countryside. Effie shows us to our rooms. They're well furbished and spacious, with en suite bathrooms. Once inside, I collapse on the edge on the bed and my face falls into my hands. My breathing is heavy as I try to steady myself, exhausted from trying to hold myself together until I had privacy once more. Katniss' face flickers behind my eyelids, grey skin, sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, rain plastering her hair to her head. I push the thought away. There'll be time for that another time, no doubt.

When I feel a little calmer, I stand, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my palms, sniffing slightly. I drag myself to the bathroom and splash my face wish cool water, scrubbing away the reminents of my weakness. Weakness won't help me now. I look up at myself in the mirror, drops of water clinging to my eyelashes an the tips of my hair which is falling into my eyes. I don't look threatening in the slightest. I don't look like a murderer. I suppose that's what I will be forced to become, though. I suddenly feel sick. The idea of what I, perhaps unavoidably, will have to do overwhelms me, and I sink the the floor, horrifying images of past Hunger Games and the savagery desperation has turned mere children to filling my skull. That this is _entertainment_, that I will be expected to be a part of, brings bile up my throat, and I lean over the rim of the toilet, retching. I know that I'd prefer to die than be turned into a monster for the Capitol's own entertainment. At least then I would be able to retain some dignity throughout this ordeal.

I rinse my mouth quickly, deciding that maybe being alone isn't best for me right now. I leave my carriage, heading in the direction that Effie told me the dining carriage would be. I find Effie there, watching some kind of game show on the television, one that thankfully doesn't involve any deaths or fighting.

"I like the train," I say to her, trying to sound confident.

"Isn't it lovely! 250 miles an hour, and so quiet! It's just marvelous. I can't even imagine how it would feel to you, I can't say you've experienced anything quite like this before, have you?"

"No, I haven't." I feel slightly awkward, but Effie just flashes a blindingly white smile at me and returns to her TV program. I'm marginally relieved. After ten or fifteen minutes, she gets up and announces that she's going to brush up for dinner. I nod, not quite understanding what she means by brush up; her wig and makeup are still in place, and her clothing as vibrant and pristine as always, but I don't question her.

Haymitch wanders in just after she's left, pointedly ignoring me, and heading straight for the drinks cart. Once he's poured himself a neat scotch, he raises the glass to his eye level.

"Mmm, good stuff," he look at me, "Right, well, I'm going to take a nap." He starts for the door once more, seems to change his mind, grabs the bottle of scotch, and leaves.

Soon Effie comes in, Katniss behind her.

"Where's Haymitch?" asks Effie, her tone bright but it is clear that she barely tolerates the man.

"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap," I respond, trying to not let my eyes slide past Effie to Katniss.

"Well, it's been an exhausting day." Effie seems relieved.

Dinner is magnificent, and having not eaten since this morning, I'm ravenous. While we're eating, Effie makes some inane comment about mine and Katniss' table manners, causing the latter of us to eat with her fingers for the rest of the meal. Watching Katniss' smug expression as Effie's horror is made clear, I find it hard to suppress a laugh.

Once we've finished, both looking and feeling a little queasy from all the food, we go to watch the recap of the reapings. I can't really focus on the TV, however. All I can think of is that these are the faces of people I could end up killing. One of these faces could be the face of my murderer.

The reapings end, and the matter of Haymitch's lack of social grace is brought to hand. The conversation is amusing until Effie reminds us that being our only remaining victor, and therefore our only mentor, we should care a little more about the fact that the person coaching us is an incompetant drunkard. That sobers us fairly quickly.

As if on queue, Haymitch staggers in, inquiring after supper. He then promptly vomits on the floor and keels over, unconscious.

Effie leaves us to clean up.

* * *

_A/N: Two chapters in one night! Wooo, yeah :D hope you enjoyed. I'll have another ready for when i get back from France, so expect an update next Thursday._


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